Counting the stars,
Grumbling and fumbling,
Abusing and shouting,
Singing ansd talking.
Indian daru and Indian darpiya, daru-drunk
And having taken country liquor,
Lies he fallen Mr.Darpiya,
Into the bushes unable to stand,
Under the open talking to the stars
And sometimes near the drains.
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Kamala Das is first a poetess of love
Of the body, not the soulIn which is lodged the soul,Of flesh and blood relationship,Man-woman relationship, love and sex,A writer posing to be Mira or RadhaBut is not exactly so,Full of frolicks and the amorous,Drawing from infidelity and transgender stuffs,Repudiation of patriarchal hegemony,Extra-marital stuffs, dissatisfaction in sex story,Eunuch dancing, the child prostitute with a doll,A…
The hariyal,
Green hariyalIn flocksOn the tree-topsPerched.
Gandhji, your pagletgiri like I, admire and appreciate I,
The excesses of yours,You too had been a manAnd you too had the limitationsOf your own.Had the English been against, you would not have beenA leader of the world statureAnd turned you into a pagletAs for them, the British,Who recognized in you,The talent of being the leader of the masses.I like your pagletgiri, but not…
Hare Rama, Hare Krishna,
They with the cymbalsAnd dhols,Singing Hare Rama, Hare Krishna,Rama-Rama, Krishna- Krishna,Krishna-Krishna, Rama-RamaAnd going the wayThe kirtaniasWith the Ram-dhuna,The kirtaniasWith the Krishna-dhuna,Hare Rama, Hare Krishna,Rama-Ram, Krishna-KrishnaSinging, clapping and dancingAnd playing musicLost in Ram-dhuna,Krishna-dhuna.
They were awfully drunk
But revealed not their identity,Just had been talking in drunkenness,In an inebriated state,WhisperingAnd talking in a slow voice,Two protagonists, personae could I guess,The theatre artistes of lifeWere they.
You pluck me
Through whichGo it the martyrs, patriots,Nationalists!You pluck me, gardenerAnd throw awayTo be strewn withThrough which cross itThe soldiers laying heir headAt the altar of the motherland!You pluck me, gardenerNot to be forInto the hands of loversOr into the hair braidBedecking itOr flowers offered to gods!But for the martyrs,Nationalists and patriotsWho cross the waysTo lay their…